dear diary,

Sometimes I think I'm an idiot. The voices in my head agree. Sometimes, even the voices of the people on the street agree, scathing and weary– "What a shame, such a scandalous woman." The whispers follow me and my sister everywhere we go because to them, we cannot be soldiers or academics, as much as we wish to be. To them, we will always be women first, someone who is supposed to stay at home, get married, have children, cook dinner. Someone, who is supposed to attend to every need of the 'man' of the household.

Well, I was never really good at following rules or customs.

I sit here right now, bored out of my mind, sent home on a mandatory holiday, especially requested by Mr. Pierce. My sister too was dismissed for the rest of the week but she thought it was well in time to visit our friend Howard, who was currently in Los Angeles. When I asked Lumont what I shall do with my holiday, he said I should visit places and perhaps maybe even secure myself a husband.

Let it not go unsaid that I'm unaware of his advances towards me, I am well mindful of the looks he gives me and the sweet words he directs towards me. He is a good man, handsome and noble. It's just that every time I see him, I don't get the feeling novels have been written about. I'm not awed by him. I'm merely conscious of the fact that he exists and would look radiant in a photograph.

Sitting alone here, I fear I shall fall a victim to 'the blues' for the first time in my life. Indeed it is dull.

I think back on my hobbies, my talents, outside of my work. Years have passed since I have had an alone moment with myself and I fear that I do not know what to do with me alone.

I am not artistic. Once, my sister asked me to draw her a flower as a gift to one of her old friends. I can still remember Peggy's horrified face as she said, "From which angle is this a flower? Or did you mean to actually make a bug?" From that moment on, I knew that drawing was not something I could excel at.

I can write. As I am writing in this journal right now, I like to write snippets of poetry sometimes and some short stories to pass my time after work. Peggy thinks I should start earning with what I write but I refuse. It's already hard enough to serve the nation as a woman, what a horror it would be to try to be an author as well.

Also, I do have some ear for music. I know a lot of songs; not very difficult songs, or very beautiful ones, to be sure, besides being very indifferently sung; but the tunes will run in my head, and it must take some ear to catch them.

I don't tend to people of my fascination towards music or the art of sound. I become interesting then and I cannot bear their eyes on me, hungry to know more. I would rather people look at Peggy and be fascinated by her.

People say to me, "Of course you play?" to which I respond, "Oh, no, but Peggy plays beautifully!" "You sing, I believe?" "Not at all– except for my parents and siblings. But Peggy sings." "You are fond of dancing?" "Very; but I cannot dance as well as Peggy." "Of course, you are fond of society?" "No, indeed! Peggy is, and she goes to all the parties and returns all the visits for me." The consequence is, that if the person who questions is a stranger, he goes off satisfied that "that Peggy must be a great girl; but that little sister of hers– Well! a prick, to say the least!"

        So it is Peggy who catches all my fish, and if she fails to, I give her what I have. I am not one for the spotlight. She is all I have in this country, after all. Not that Michael was dead, she held on to me tightly as she could and got us here for work.

I'm no-one special. Just an untraditional woman in this decade. But this life, even without any flair in it is better than what I could ever imagine.

I must leave now, maybe I can ask Lumont to accompany me to the bar. Perhaps sparks are not found but rather created.

love,

Andrea